A wild laugh came from Hervey’s direction.
“And who’s going to take me?” he cried. “You, Robb Chillingwood, you? Ha, ha!” and his maniacal laugh rang out again. “Look to yourself, you fool. Grey crossed my path, and he paid for it with his life. You shall follow him.”
While his words yet rang upon the air his hand shot out from behind him, gripping a heavy revolver. The pistol was raised, and a shriek went up from the two ladies.
Suddenly there was a rush, a snarl; and a great body seemed to literally hurl itself through the air. A shot rang out; simultaneously a cry echoed through the room; Hervey staggered as something seized him by the throat and tore away the soft flesh; another shot followed.
It all happened in a twinkling. Hervey fell to the ground with a gurgling cry, and Neche, the dog, until then forgotten by everybody, rolled over by his side with one dying yelp of pain. Then silence reigned throughout the room and all was still.
Iredale returned his smoking pistol to his pocket, and went over to Hervey’s side. His movements seemed to release the others from the spell under which they had been held. Robb, unharmed by Hervey’s shot, came forward, and Sarah and Prudence followed in his wake. But Iredale waved the ladies back.
“Stand away, please,” he said quietly. “The dog had finished him before I got my shot in to save him. The brute has literally torn his throat out.” Then he looked over at the dead hound. “It’s awful; I wonder what made the dog turn upon him?”
“Are they both dead?” asked Robb, in an awestruck voice.
Iredale nodded.